Perchance to Scream
by Rayn12
Summary: Mary comes to Marshall for a little help sorting things out; answers are, after all, his department. Oneshot, spoilers through Season 2 episode 1. I don't own the characters or the show.


Marshal Marshall Mann had been in the business long enough to listen to his instincts. The tingle of his spider-sense had more than once alerted him to subtle changes in a situation even before his keen intellect had picked up on them. Marshall knew that half-second of advance warning had saved his life more than once, and he'd honed his ability to listen to it.

Some warnings were, of course, more subtle than others. As he opened his front door to reveal his partner and a bottle of Cuervo his spider-sense was not so much tingling as set on stun. Mary seemed to be slowly settling back into life after her kidnapping ordeal, but most days still brought symptoms of the trauma. Marshall had become something of an emotional paramedic, always on call for those touch-and-go moments, and in his professional medical opinion, copious consumption of alcohol was high on the "Things That Are NOT a Good Idea" list. But Mary was a big girl, and she was not her mother, and she'd have to give him a helluva good reason not to trust her judgment, even after all she'd been through of late.

He smiled and let her in.

*****

Half an hour later, Mary was downing her fourth shot and ranting. Marshall, still nursing his watered-down first, was mostly just sitting back and letting her talk.

"I mean, okay, so I wasn't _thrilled_ when I got this assignment, but it turns out I actually like it here. Albuquerque is a nice town."

"Sure, what's not to like? You have nature, culture, good weather, balloons, baseball players…"

"Don't talk to me about baseball players!" Mary snapped, then leaned forward to lay her arms on the table and her head on her arms. "I'm not ready to think about that yet. But yes, I like the balloons. Not the traffic that comes with them, but the balloons are nice."

"Did you know that the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta--"

"Yeah, yeah, most photographed event in the world, largest ballooning event, blah, blah, blah. Everybody knows that. I expect better of you." He had been going to say 'started as a radio promotion (with 17 balloons)', but he let it go. She raised her head to look at him. "The point is I thought I'd get to have my own _life_ here, free of the rolling train wreck that is my family, and the first thing that happens when I finally buy my own home is my _mother_ showing up on my doorstep! And then Brandi follows and there's this whole mess with Chuck and I find out that my baby sister is a shiftless, helpless, unemployed _drug dealer_, Mom is still falling down drunk half the time, but _I'm_ the one everyone is mad at." She slammed her fist on the table for emphasis. "How is that fair? And the things she said to me… Marshall, the things she said. No mother should say those things to her own daughter. And where does she get off? I didn't even _do_ anything. The worst thing I've done is receive letters from her husband, who in my defense is my father, and it's not _my_ fault that I'm the only member of the family trustworthy or stable enough to be worth writing to!" She sighed. "Pour me another?"

Marshall did, but put the bottle away. Mary, collapsed across the table, didn't seem to notice. He nudged the glass into her open palm until her fingers closed reflexively around it.

"And now," she mumbled, raising her head to stare at the amber liquid in the glass, "now my new house is in little bits all over the floor, and everyone is _hovering_ like they're waiting for me to snap and rip someone's head off." She snorted. "Like I've never done _that_ before."

"Everyone is worried about you. You went through a traumatic event. No matter how badly they express it, a lot of people care about you and want to offer you their support."

"Everyone wants to help me, to analyze me, to check on me, to straighten me out, but no one knows what the crap they're talking about! They just complicate things, because they don't know what's really wrong. What the _problem_ is."

She gulped her tequila, in an apparent effort to drown the problem. At a glance, Marshall guessed that it hadn't worked. After a moment of contemplation during which her eyes seemed focused inward, tracing the path the fiery beverage burned through her body as it chased her issues, she thumped her empty glass down on the table and stood. She was pacing and gesturing, nearly vibrating with the force of nervous energy required to float this confession _out _over her barriers, even alcohol-lowered as they were.

"And the problem, the _real _problem is that I'm alive. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to be, and I worked for it, but there was no way-- there wasn't a way out. Chuck got his face blown off right in front of me. I should have been the same. The fact that I'm here now just feels like some sort of cosmic accident, and I'm not sure if it's a 'whoops, good thing she landed there!' kind of accident or a 'restore the balance of the universe by committing suicide' kind of accident, and that really shouldn't be this hard of a question to answer, should it? I mean should it? And if I care about the answer does that change the fact that I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop, and at any time, any day, I could find myself right back at the wrong end of a smoking barrel, or you could or Stan or Raph or Brandy or Jinx, and what do I do with that? You already got shot once, and I…" she choked up for just a second, and Marshall felt a reciprocal lump in his own throat, "I thought I was going to lose you and I could be there again at any time…

_"Or_, or I could be the one holding the gun. I mean, before that night there was a living, breathing human being walking around -- alright," she conceded with a shrug, "so he wasn't much of a man, he was scumbag, but he was a _living_ scumbag, with the possibility of reform. He could have led a better life. He had friends and family and possibilities, until I shot him. If I can love… if I can love my dad… what if someone is out there right now, shooting him? Who am I to say that this man should die? How am I so much better than him? Let's face it: I am an overbearing, ungrateful, unmitigated bitch. Most of the people I know would be delighted to shoot me after one day. One hour! So where do I get off popping him?

"Marshall, I'm not supposed to be here. What am I going to do with that?"

She really didn't know. Instinctively he reached out and his touch broke her; she collapsed against him with a tiny, keening sob that lanced straight through his heart. He tightened his grip, cradling her and swaying gently. He felt better having her close, like he could protect her as long as she stayed where his arms could hold the world at bay. He wanted to be the voice in her head, the one that would calm her with the truth when thoughts like this hounded her. He wanted to feel her every breath, every motion… He brought one hand up to stroke her honey hair while he reassured her.

"What you are dealing with is survivor's guilt. It's a symptom of post traumatic stress disorder, just like the panic attacks and the dreams, and it's perfectly natural after an experience like the one you had. It's not going to be this way forever. We're going to talk this through, work it out. You have nothing to feel guilty about. We'll get through this together, ok?"

"Ok," she hiccupped. After a long pause, she added, "But maybe next time we should do it without the tequila." She leaned out of the embrace and, unwilling to fetter her, Marshall let her go. She picked up her glass, looked at it, set it down, wiped her face with her hands. "It feels so weird, you know? Being around Jinx and Raph and Brandi. They think they know what's going on, but they don't know half of it, and I can't _talk_, I can't tell them. They can't even handle their own lives, giving them any of this would just be… torture. Child abuse or something. Is it still child abuse if the adult acts like a child? I don't know."

"You need to find someone you can talk to. It doesn't have to be one of them, but it should be somebody."

"That's why I have you."

_Yeah, me and five shots of tequila_, Marshall thought. _ I wish… Damn. I wish I was a mind reader. Or a shrink. Or both._

"I should probably get home, before the family calls the cops."

"Bobby would call me first. I bet he'd let you lay low." The unintended invitation for her to spend the night at his place made his heart beat fast. Strange reaction; he and Mary had slept under the same roof often enough before. He kept his expression light and tried not to think about it.

Mary didn't seem to have noticed the implication of his remark. "The call wouldn't go to Bobby. And even if it did, who'd sort that one out in the morning, hmm? Not me." She grabbed her purse.

"I guess I'm picking you up for work tomorrow?" Marshall queried, fishing his keys from his pocket. After five tequilas, Mary would not be driving.

"That would be easiest, yeah. I can pick up my car after work."

She would have to come by his house again. They could have dinner together before she left… "I'll be there bright and early, then."

"You show up before 7:30 or smiling and I'll shoot you."

"That's not a very creative punishment."

"Creativity after noon. Brutal vengeance before."

"Good to know."

The ride to Mary's house passed largely in silence; odd, after the torrent of words that had preceded it, but companionable nevertheless. As they pulled up in front of her house, however, Marshall found that he still had something to say.

"Mary, the guy you shot, Jason Painter, he's not your Dad. He's not anything like your Dad. Your father is laying low somewhere, keeping his nose clean and not getting caught, holding a job and going bowling on Thursdays or whatever it is that he does. Someday you'll see him again and you two can talk things over."

"Thanks, Marshall. I hope so."

She was smiling as she got out of the car: mission accomplished. But he couldn't let her go without one last thing. "Hey, Mary?"

"Yeah, Marshall?"

"Promise me you won't… 'restore the balance of the universe', ok? Talk to me first."

"Yeah, Marshall. I will. 'Night."

"Goodnight. See you tomorrow." He watched her until she shut the front door behind herself. She seemed better, and she seemed serious about talking to him if she had another panic attack. That was good. It wouldn't stop the nightmares, of course; after her rant today, he'd spend all night dreaming about Mary eating her own gun. Real life Mary wasn't the type to do that, though. She could go too far protecting a witness, or sabotage her key relationships, or drink herself into liver failure, but he could see those coming and reign her in. Probably.

For now his shift was over. "_Live each day and be done with it. You have done what you could,_"he quoted to himself. "_Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely…_"Tomorrow was another day, more or less. Hopefully more. He and his partner both deserved that. Maybe tonight's rare breakdown would do what professional counsel could not and lighten Mary's burden for tomorrow… He chuckled as another Emerson quote crossed his mind. "_Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis._" Mary would agree whole-heartedly with that statement, if she could get over the fact that it had been made by a guy named Ralph Waldo.

God, but he was tired. Time to leave all this for another day. "Sleep well, Mare," he whispered as he dropped into bed and turned out the light. "Sweet dreams."


End file.
